


The Master of Death

by HeartHarps



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark Harry, Diary/Journal, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-24 02:27:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6138223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeartHarps/pseuds/HeartHarps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I am the most powerful wizard to ever live. I do not run from my weaknesses. I do not even fight them. I do not resort, even, to killing them. No. I have embraced my weakness.</p><p>Harry Potter, the boy of the prophecy, had to be stopped.</p><p>But why create a martyr, when you can create a weapon?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tom Marvolo Riddle

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Untitled](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/178783) by Leah, Tumblr User: parseltonquinq. 



> This is written like a journal, in first person, with Draco Malfoy as the narrator/author. Details concerning the creation of the journal are revealed throughout.  
> Takes place during what would have been Harry's 6th and 7th year.
> 
> Happy reading!

**December 14, 1996**

This was the day I met a ghost. His name was John, and he was the ghost of a boy named Harry Potter.

It was Senior Skip Day. It was snowing, which put a damper on things, but the agenda mapped out by all the Slytherins above fourth year included a long warm-up session in the Three Broomsticks somewhere in the middle.

That is where my story begins.

I was freezing, from my fingertips to my knees. After a scandalously impromptu snowball fight, we headed to the pub and were nearly inside when I heard Pansy giggling with Abigail—not an unusual occurrence, but I always had to be ready to defend my honour from their perpetual spew of scorn.

It turned out they weren't laughing at me. They were making obscene sexual remarks about a figure leant up against the Three Broomsticks building, sporting a smashing dark coat and smoking a cigarette. They thought he was drop-dead sexy, which I knew because I thought he was drop-dead sexy.

Anyways, he sat at a table inside by himself, looking at me like he knew all my secrets, so when we were done I told Pansy I'd catch up later and went and talked to him.

It was funny, actually. Nott had been joking around, saying he'd heard some horror story about the malicious ghost of the dead infant Harry Potter, flying around and killing people in the night. (I didn't know it at the time but this was based on more fact than I prefer to admit even now.)

I had heard a different story, growing up. A name whispered in victory. The parents dead, and the Savior harvested in time to become the turning point in this war. I knew Harry Potter was supposed to have been eliminated, according to half a prophecy and anyone who'd listen—but the Dark Lord made a different call. Something about creating a weapon instead of a martyr.

So on that day I asked him why he wasn't dead and he asked me why I wasn't in school and I said You First. He told me someone named Tom—the person whom I'd call 'The Dark Lord'—raised him as his son and renamed him John (but not until I made a fool of myself by calling him Harry Potter first). He didn't know what Senior Skip Day was.

John asked me if I’d read the Bible[1](birbclub.tumblr.com/1). I told him no. Most wizards haven't; I think we're too introspective to even entertain the possibility of a power higher than wizardry. 

Not Harry told me about John, the Baptist who lived in the desert and learned to survive off of nothing. He was important because he told everyone that Jesus Christ, the Messiah, was coming to save them. John ushered in a new age, paving the way for Jesus to do his thing.

I asked him if the Dark Lord fancied himself a Messiah. John told me that healing people was the Dark magic of Jesus' day.

After that it got weird and John told me he'd be "watching" me and I'd been "doing good", which I did not get at the time. Then he left me alone with half his firewhiskey, which I drank and paid for before Madame Rosmerta could notice. I needed it.

I was reeling, a little bit. I had waited my whole life to talk to Death Eaters like John, to become one of them. Since the Dark Lord had taken over the Ministry in 2002, being a Death Eater was about as good as it gets. Everyone else stayed home, stayed quiet, waiting for it to be over.

But I was going to be a Death Eater. And I didn’t know it at the time, but I’d just taken my first step to becoming one.

**December 22, 1996**

I went to my first Death Eater meeting. Not a fancy one, like Father's always at. Just a bunch of sweaty people in dark clothes, screaming about blood and magic. John killed a man; supposedly a traitor. We captured the Austrian Ministry. I took Dreamless Sleep that night, for the first time since I was a kid. I took it every night for the next 150 nights—interrupted only by the Zabini Birthday Bash of 97, which I spent under a different kind of medication, so the number is sometimes 225 days, depending on who's asking.

EDIT: I was told this entry is a mess. I'll recap: The Dark Lord talked for a long time, mentioning Austria and bashing muggleborns. People joined in shouting there. Then he told a story about loyalty and brought this guy in, floating on his back, and John killed him. It freaked me out, seeing this kid my age—obviously different from me, but still—murder somebody in cold blood. I couldn't sleep after that, not naturally. I thought that was weird at the time. **  
**

Oh, also, Daphne and Rami and Gemma were there too, making noise the whole time, though I didn't know them yet. I guess that's important.

**January 3, 1997**

John found me. Not it any bad way. I had less than 24 hours until my ride back to Hogwarts, and I was picking up more supplies for school at Diagon Alley—and yes, the other place too, but I'd had enough of my "family friends" for a lifetime, thanks to the seven Death Eater meetings the Dark Lord had managed to squeeze into the past two weeks, so I avoided the shops with even questionable reputations for my errands.

Until I stopped inside the Leaky Cauldron to warm up, and John was there. He put away his cigarette told me we had to stop meeting like this, like he was trying to make a joke. I told him I hardly thought it was my fault. John showed some emotion similar to embarrassment that I hadn't seen on him yet in our small score of interactions, and told me that he was, and I quote, "a bit too invested in [my] case." This was the first time I explicitly told myself, with the intention of deterring emotional attachment, that John had been raised by a psychopath and had had little to no interactions with people his own age, thus retaining no understanding of the concept of romantic connotations.

John asked me how I liked the meetings and I lied. He asked me if everything was making more sense and I lied. But the lies were the right answers, and he told me he was giving the go-ahead for me to be put to use. I chanted sociopath, sociopath, sociopath for a while. Then he gave me a list of stuff that was definitely not Diagon friendly, and disappeared, leaving half a glass of Dragon's Barrel. I paid, swallowed it, and set to work.

For Draco[2](http://birbclub.tumblr.com/2)

Ptolemy - 78 mL  
Armadillo bile  
Lobalug venom - enough to incapacitate an elephant  
Doxy venom  
Essence of comfrey - 7  
Fluxweed  
Nightshade  
Blatta Pulvereus - Not the cheap kind  
Olibanum

After that, it was all supposed to be rather surprising and exciting, I guess, but I knew Severus Snape's handwriting when I saw it.

**January 30, 1997**

I told him he took long enough. Snape was to take me on as a sort of apprentice, while the Death Eaters' demands for Potions was at an all time high. Paying my dues kind of thing before he sent me off to murder Austrians.

Hah.

Hah hah.

Anyways, Snape informed me one day after class that my talents were wasted in NEWT Potions, and an advanced class was available on weekends if I wanted it.

I put my Potions kit on the table, removing the top layer of nonsense used to make Pepper-Up and Draughts for the Daft, revealing the groceries that John gave me the list for.

Snape hardly reacted; I almost missed the surprise in his eyes, but it was there nonetheless, for a fraction of a second at least. The supplies were hardly legal, especially in these quantities, and never seen in schools, so he kept himself under wraps quite well, considering the trivial pursuits he usually surrounded himself with.

I told him I was in. Also, that there was no point in waiting to move the operation to his private lab. I think he nearly dropped me then, but we both knew it was what the Dark Lord had specifically requested, so he held his tongue, making me promise to hold mine in return.

**February 1, 1997**

This day fucked me up. I saw John again, and every mistake I'd ever made was justified.

It was my first day at Snape's. I flooed straight into his lab from Dumbledore's office. I'll make it known now that to this day I've yet to see any part of Severus Snape's house other than his Potions lab. But that was the beginning of a series of very educational experiences in Potionmaking, Death Eatership, morality, and occasionally Occlumency. (Some days orders were slow.)

Just entering the lab, I was introduced to seventeen new smells. Snape had five cauldrons steaming on his island workbench, and was stirring a sixth, from which a golden mist was rising. The counters surrounding the room held hundreds of boxes, bowls, and jars, stuffed with every Potion ingredient I'd had ever heard of. Below, scales and ladles and measuring tools of every shape and side were piled on two levels of shelving. Above, probably a million recipes were stuck to the walls, stretching up to the very ceiling. I couldn't help but follow it, from the oldest, yellowest recipes in one corner, all the way around to where Snape had moved to stick a fresh piece of parchment. Interesting enough, hardly any of them were handwritten, but apparent torn from other books and resources. In the same breath, every single one had a comment, a revised sum, or entire steps scratched out and replaced. Standing there, looking up, it looked like Severus Snape was trying to rewrite Potionmaking altogether.

But that was it for spectation. Snape handed me a list of orders and asked if I had any questions. I asked him why there was 32 orders of Dreamless Sleep. He took it back in scandal, and I was relieved—I believed at the time that that could never be true; that 32 people could be the same way as me. You know what he said?

"It should be 36, apologies."

As it turned out, I wasn't the only Death Eater with a nightmare problem.

EDIT: I've been asked to elaborate more on what exactly my position entailed and what Potions I was making. This, of course, is a ridiculous request and if one were attempting to arrange me a date with a Dementor, the potions I, a minor, was making under instructions from adult fugitives should not be the reason. Have you forgotten about my murder charges? No? Well. I haven't either.

Getting to the useless information that nobody cares about: I was Snape's assistant, and he was the Official Potioneer of the Death Eaters. Meaning I knowingly handled poisonous and harmful substances with the intent to hurt and/or incapacitate another person.

Potions wise, we got more Dreamless Sleep orders than anything, but Veritaserum was common too, and I can still brew Lobalug Whiskey with my eyes closed. Lobalug being the most potent poison known to man, which coincidentally tastes like regular alcohol when brewed like Firewhiskey. Never enough to kill; that was John's job.

Other notable draughts include Amortentia, Felix Felicis, Alihotsy Draught, and Baneberry Potion.

Moving on, things were quiet until my third batch of Liquid Legilimens[3](http://birbclub.tumblr.com/3) exploded.

Apparently I had knocked it while reaching for a scale and it had nearly crushed me, until two Finité Locomotors landed at the same time, shattering the cauldron and spilling gold goop everywhere. It was only then I noticed John was even in the room. Snape told me clean to up the mess and then ran off, giving John a weird look that made them both seem more human somehow.

John wanted to know how I was doing. Sociopath. I told him I'd only just started; he failed to see how that was relevant. John usually relied on first impressions. He was rarely wrong.

We talked about Snape's Potion Methodology—I learned then that he'd been learning NEWT level Potions from Snape before I'd cast a single Unforgivable.

It wasn't like we had this life-long-friends dynamic. He made awkward half-comments, I nodded and tried to keep it going, but alas, sociopath. I asked questions. He answered.

Then, right before he left, Snape came back in. John stood and walked right up to me, wordlessly opening one side of my robes and removing the bottle of Dreamless Sleep. Sociopath. He told me, "Don't be stupid, Draco," left it on the table and climbed into the fireplace. He smelled like cigarettes and cold cologne.

Don't be stupid, of course meaning don't be weak. Not only did the Dark Lord not like weak people, John didn't like weak people. I guess being addicted to drugs meant being weak, so I must not've listened. The only thing I could hear was my heart beating in my chest, and the mantra of _sociopath sociopath sociopath_ in my head.

Snape guessed then that I loved John, which of course was a ridiculous assumption. The concept of I, Draco Malfoy, _not_ loving the person then known to me as John was incomprehensible and worthless. John was a turning into some version of a friend—but before that, he had been a fact. The Legend of Harry Potter was my bedtime story. I loved my mother, and I thanked her for tucking me in. I loved my father, and I thanked him for providing for me. I loved Harry Potter, and I thanked him for saving Wizardkind. Snape's conclusion was truer than truth, yet he drew it based on all the wrong evidence.

I tried to end the conversation and asked about the potency of Cornish Pixie blood and its effects on the texture of Disillusionment Draughts. He ignored me and told me that John was not like the Dark Lord. I laughed and told him I would hope not.

**February 22, 1997**

The Dark Lord and John visited me at home. They sat me down in the parlor and Mother served tea. She asked them if they'd prefer Mead instead, to which John answered yes while the Dark Lord answered no. As she flitted off, the Dark Lord half-glanced at John and said, "A disgusting habit," in a disappointed tone. I wondered if he knew about the smoking.

A half-second of horror and alarm flashed over John's face. He looked at me and then away. "Please, Tom."

"Relax," The Dark Lord answered, "We're among friends, here," Which I extrapolated over the years was supposed to be code for 'Emotions are acceptable'. That's one fucked up code to have with your son, if you ask me.

EDIT: Is he really his son? Some people don't think so, and throw around words like 'prodigy' and 'apprentice'. Those people have never seen John and Tom. Tom is a father, and John is a son. Their relationship was completely driven by success; Tom’s expectation, and John’s duty. There wasn't an ounce of love of acceptance or filial affection between the two. The title Son meant successor. The term Father meant motivator. The Dark Lord? He was just a fanatic. A leader, a great wizard, etc. Many people have seen the Dark Lord and his greatest weapon, John, but few have seen just Tom. Just John.

The Dark Lord asked me about how I liked helping Snape, how I had liked the meetings while I could make them. I lied, but the lies were the right answers, and he seemed happy.

Then he told me something and I began to understand. The Dark Lord told me that John said I was doing well. And suddenly, I realized what this whole thing with John had been about.

John was a spy.

John was a spy tasked with scoping out new Death Eaters. Checking for the right blend of loyalty, talent, and eagerness. And the way John was treating me, I was a fucking Starbucks Latté.

That threw me a bit, but I got through the rest of it fine, and was told someone would be in touch. I thanked them and John smiled at me as they left, just standing and Apparating. My mother hugged me.

******March 10, 1997**

Daphne Greengrass corners me and asks me what I thought. I don't understand. She says, "The meeting?" I tell her it's next week. She turns white and runs off.

**March 16, 1997**

My first real Death Eater meeting.

**March 17, 1997**

Daphne Greengrass corners me again. I ask who's asking and she says Not Voldemort. She just wants the truth. I tell her that's bollocks, and leave.

**April 12, 1997**

I attend my second Real Death Eater Meeting. We sit around a table and avoid eye contact with each other and everything. The Dark Lord doles out assassinations and various nefarious tasks. I would have told you about the first meeting, but I was too nervous to really take in all that was going on. This time, I learn lots. Bellatrix bullies Rodolphus, Amycus bullies Alecto. Goyle is always volunteering and never picked. Rosier is always on sentry. A vault needed to be busted, and Wilkes agreed like it was routine.

I was actually personally acknowledged this time. The Dark Lord was checking in with Snape to see he was doing alright and everything Potion-supply wise was going well, saying it must be, now that he had his "new friend". Snape agreed shortly.

**May 14, 1997**

On this day, I still had the first Snitch I ever caught. I had brought it to my Great Uncle Alphard's funeral back in March—I didn't realize it was still in my pocket when I wore the same pants to the May meeting. It's a nerves thing; pulling on the wings and turning it round in my fingers helps me keep calm.

I guess John saw it that day at the meeting, when I couldn't help but take it out. I don't even think my mother noticed, and she was sat right next to me.

Anyways, next thing I knew I was back at school and it was gone.

That Saturday was gorgeous; we'd be stupid not to take to the village like flies to fallen fruit.

Halfway through the day, I found the Snitch in the deepest pocket of the deepest blue denim jacket I own.

**May 28, 1997**

I was home for the weekend. I heard a lot of truth and saw a lot of lies, so I won't talk about seeing.

My parents were in the parlour and I was supposed to be heading to bed. From the back hallway, I heard something smash, but when I reached the door and was about to rush in, I heard my mother: "My Lord!"

Then I just sat, and listened.

"We were not expecting you, is all."

"Really, Lucius? After Wales?"

They were quiet for a time. I never heard John, but I know he was there.

"I am disappointed, Lucius. Good lives, wasted. Good blood, spilled. On your hands, Lucius—"

"Please, My Lord, there was nothing I could do, I—"

"Do not beg, Lucius, it does not become you. If I were only here to kill you, well. I wouldn't have knocked."

"Anything, my Lord. Everything."

He always spoke slow, in that raspy voice he had, but this time his words dragged out forever, finding the nerve they were intended for with pinpoint precision.

"Just...one thing, Lucius. I want...Draco." At this point my stomach somersaulted and the feeling didn't go away for a month. "I want to know him. I want to see his heart in my hands, Lucius."

My Father answered quickly: "My Lord I fail to understand how my mistakes—"

"Enough, Lucius. Draco has until the end of the term to kill Dumbledore—"

"He needs more time."

"There is no more time, Lucius. The fool must die. This is your last chance." A pause. "Do not disappoint me, Lucius." A massive snap of Disapparition, and silence.

I waited there for a while, half-frozen with nausea, half-paralyzed in fear, but I didn't hear anything else.

I went to bed. I didn't take anything that night, just laid there, looking, trying not to think; not sleeping, not dreaming.

********May 29, 1997** ** ** **

I went back to school. I checked my bag before leaving; toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, new shoes, an old robe I had repaired with my father's needle and thread, and my Snitch. When I arrived, the robe was gone, and instead, a magnificent silvery cloth as thin as air and as slippery as oil was folded between my Oxfords.

********June 5, 1997** ** ** **

Happy Birthday to me. John writes:

_Dear Draco,_

_Happy Birthday. I hope you enjoy it._

_I also hope you aren't finding your task too difficult. Even I tried reasoning with him, but between you and me, this is the first good idea he's had in awhile, and he wants to see it through. Even if it means losing you, which he doesn't want to happen, not really. Your father on the other hand..._   
_I believe in you Draco. I've done everything I can for you. Good luck._

_Love,_   
_John_

Obviously it was laced with manipulation and secret messages, that contextually made me sweat and actually begin to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Most importantly, two things: first, it drove me. John made me believe my father was really in danger. And second, he told me the cloak was no accident. Not that I had ever thought it was.

********June 13, 1997[4](http://birbclub.tumblr.com/4)** ** ** **

It was simple, elegant, very me. Ten minutes before dinner, I went to the Room of Requirement and knocked on the twin cupboard I had fixed up between classes with help from John's cloak. The other end was at my house. It was a matter of minutes before the Death Eaters waiting there could enter one cupboard and exit out the other side. Rookwood, Avery, Avery Jr., Bellatrix, and Rosier. My army of 5.

We stormed the Great Hall, stunning teachers on the way, scaring students, picking up Snape. Going in, Avery got the doors, Bellatrix stunned McGonagall, and Dumbledore was the only other teacher there. Some Gryffindors stood up. Avery Jr. hesitated when one jumped in front of him, so I rolled my eyes and took care of them myself.

Dumbledore stood up, but didn't move to use his wand. I disarmed him.

Of all things, he smiled, and said, "Good evening, Draco."

I didn't stop moving. I charged him until my wand was pressed to his jugular.

There was a bang at the door. Rookwood went to address it.

Dumbledore started to say something but I cut him off, told him I had to do it. He told me I wasn't a killer.

I asked, how do you know? How do you know what I've done? What I've seen?

He said he could help me, whatever that meant. I didn't need help. I knew a lot of people who needed a lot more help than I did.

A window smashed. One by one, my army peeled off to protect our fortress.

I told him he couldn't. I had to do it, or he'd kill me. He'd kill my family.

Dumbledore said he knew, he understood. That's why he hadn't come to me earlier: "If Lord Voldemort suspected I knew of his plans–"

But I cut him off.

I laughed.

I couldn't help it. I was terrified, and tired, and about to commit a murder.

Lord Voldemort? I said. I wish. If only Lord Voldemort was the nightmare, and the thing that went bump in the night. If only it was Lord Voldemort's wand pointed down my nose, an Unforgivable on his lips.

And then I guess he figured it out.

Draco, he said, and I was shaking. Dumbledore told me that he knew what it was like, to look into the eyes of someone you love, and see a monster.

I'd like to say I killed him, that I really believed in all of it, that I was capable of staying true to something; anything. But I wasn't.  
Snape, somewhere behind me said It's okay, even though it wasn't, and I nearly started to cry. He put a hand on my shoulder and stood next to me and killed him.

Snape told me I did it, I'd done it. Bellatrix was laughing. I did it, I'd done it.

Snape told me to pick up the wand. I didn't want to. I was looking at him, and he was dead.

Pick it up. I didn't want him to be dead, but Snape was right, I'd done it. Pick it up.

I don't know, eventually I picked it up and we left and I didn't see Hogwarts again until I was attacking it.

**June 14, 1997**

The Dark Lord took the wand and John’s cloak and gave me the Dark Mark at the next monthly meeting. (It's worth mentioning the Dark Lord was also in possession of a certain family heirloom at this time.) People cheered. It hurt.

EDIT: What else is there to say? I don't know anything about how he did it. It was a silent spell he wrote and never shared. Get over it; understanding the Mark won't bring anyone back.

I don't hear anything directly about being in the Dark Lord’s good graces, but I get the sense that while he isn't exactly pleased with my little stunt, I did get the job done, so the death threats will cease.


	2. Draco Lucius Malfoy

**June 30, 1997**

It was Party at Voldemort's from there; I was a full-time Death Eater. Which meant a lot of Apparating between the Lab and the Dark Lord's manor. People came and went with news and updates. Flitwick was captured; they needed Veritaserum. A Mexican Auror was onto Bradley; they needed Lobalug Whiskey.

Groups would go on bigger missions; raiding a house, mass kidnappings, all good things. The house ran on the Dark Lord's instructions alone, which were fueled by intel from spies like Snape and Crouch Jr.. The building was the centre, the nucleus, the brain behind one of the largest, most intricate genocides of all time.

It was addicting.

It went on for a while uninterrupted, and I went on as a part of it. Doing my duty, feeling like a part of something bigger, like we all long to feel. The perfect illusion; an ancient pane of stained glass depicting the Savior rising up against the unbelievers.

Until John the Baptist himself pulled me into a broom closet and shattered it. That's sounds scandalous, doesn't it? Well it is. This is where all that you call scandal starts.

I was heading to the basement, where we kept hostages, when a random door opened and something pulled me inside.

I instantly saw that the closet contained two things: John and John's stuff. (I figured Voldemort wasn't the one keeping a secret stash of Muggle candy and Marlboro's.)

First I asked him what the fuck and then I asked him what the fuck is a Twizzler. I'd never heard of those before but it sounded like something I wanted, especially from John.

John told me he needed the truth from me. Daphne had tried already to talk to me but I didn't bite, so they'd waited until I'd trust them. What did I think of Tom–sorry, Voldemort?

I freaked and started rambling about loyalty but John called me off. He wasn't talking about the cause, he was talking about the way the Dark Lord was going about the cause.

He told me to think about all the people in this house. Supposedly we wanted to kill all the Mudbloods; why weren't they dead yet?

I said the Order. The rogue Aurors.

John just told me that they shouldn't be stopping us.

Being a Death Eater, my greatest fear was unworthiness, so I was still kind of spooked from the original assault. John could tell, so he sighed and stepped back and told me to just think about it. He moved to open the door, his hand was on the handle and everything, but he stopped and said, "And Draco?" Then he grabbed my face and kissed me, all tobacco and sugar.

EDIT: You said to write it like a diary. If you take this out, I'm revoking the rights. You can't market me as 'scandalous' and then take out the real gossip.

**July 4, 1997**

At the time, the kiss floored me. John had gone from being a bedtime story, to a ghost, to the second most important person in my life (the first being the Dark Lord) to... Now what?

Whatever we were, I was glad my follow-up was less private—though it was more secret. I was recruited in the same manner—yanked through a strange doorway—but was welcomed by a committee of five into a decently lit library, causing me to wonder at the real necessity of the candy closet.

I asked John what the fuck and told him I was no good to him anginose. Only one person laughed, and it was John.

I just stood there awkwardly why the others looked confused. John explained it was a Muggle disease where you get heart attacks a lot. He knew exactly how to make a killing curse look like heart failure.

I started to say that was impressive but Gemma Farley, of all people, was there and decided to cut me off: "Irrelevant. Are you in?" She went on to explain how I needn't feel any pressure to say yes, as they really didn't need me and might even be better off without me.

John rolled his eyes and we sat down in the circle of chairs in the center of the library. There was six of us then; there was six of us for a long time after that. John, me, Gemma, Daphne, another guy and a another girl I didn't recognize.

"Not exactly a warm welcome," I said mostly to John, and they all laughed, seemingly at me.

Gemma said that she thought John had already been plenty warm to me. Apparently they all knew John had kissed me. 

John changed the subject, and everyone listened. I put together the rest of the plan that day. Kill Voldemort, kill Muggle-borns, rule wizards worldwide.

That day I joined something. A counter-resistance, yes, with a genius plan and the perfect leader, but the laughter and the teasing reminded me that we were a bunch of kids. Daphne and I were barely legal; John wasn't even yet. Gemma was only a few years older than me and the other two turned out to be 21 and 24. I had joined a secret, independent service of wizards on the wrong side of the law and the right side of morality–but we were really just a fairly lethal gossip club.

I learned the other guy was Rami, Gemma's friend from France. Helga had heard whispers and confronted John one day. She had been studying to be a Healer. Both Dark Lord Supporters gone rogue.

Anyways, the meeting concluded when I asked how we were going to kill the Dark Lord; I thought he was supposed to be immortal. Gemma, Rami, Daphne and Helga all looked to John in sync with expectation. He said he was working on it, with grim determination and not a shred of humour in his demeanor.

Then we left and pretended we didn't know each other.

I wrestled with what John had said for a while; what did he mean by 'working on'? It could've been that they had no idea how to kill Voldemort, and John was desperately researching.

But I had a hunch. I thought John knew, but it was more complicated than just some Latin and a cool wand.

It turned out I was right.

**July 5, 1997**

John turns up out of nowhere, corners me in a back hallway, and kisses me again, all tobacco and sugar. I don't know how to respond. He Disapparates.

**July 8, 1997**

An execution in front of the whole team. A meeting. The Dark Lord has had Dumbledore's wand—what he believes to be the Elder Wand—for a while now, but is unsatisfied. Something's not right.

(I don't believe in fairy tales, and at the time, I thought this was a fairy tale.)

John corners me in a back hallway and asks me if I want to kiss him. I do. I tell him. Not in so many words, of course, but in tobacco and sugar.

**July 25, 1997**

I suppose John and I are a thing. We talk to each other in public. He kisses me. Tobacco and sugar. I bug him about the whole Killing Voldemort thing.

I've met a few more times with the Angels, as Rami has taken to calling us six. I deduce our plans seem to be at a standstill with the Dark Lord's beating heart in our way, but John refuses to let anyone help.

I kiss and kiss and kiss him after one meeting, trying to break through, trying to get him to trust me. Tobacco and sugar. Tobacco and sugar. I finally say, "Just tell me," But he shuts down.

**July 26, 1997**

I work in Snape's lab. John hangs around like a bad smell. I ask him if Tom knows about us, knowing he won't know who I'm referring to if I use any of Voldemort's other names. John shrugs and says probably. I ask if he's told him and he says they don't really talk. About anything.

After nearly five minutes of silence I tell John he can talk to me. About anything. He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't run away either.

**July 29, 1997**

There's a big meeting. The Dark Lord quits trying with Dumbledore's wand, for some reason John probably perpetrated. People die. People live. John finds me in the crowd when it's over, pulls me away from my mother and walks me out to the garden. I ask if everything's ok. Everything is. He just wanted to talk to me.

John leans against the wall at the very back of the property and takes out a cigarette and offers me one. I decline, because wizards don't smoke. Muggles do.

He talks, more than I've ever heard him say in one sitting before. Mostly gossip. People living, dying, doing ugly things. Ugly words I hardly use and never like. I wonder for a minute if it's Angels propaganda; maybe he does this to everyone.

But I could see the passion, the vulnerability, the sincerity. He genuinely wanted someone to talk to. A friend.

I let it be me.

**July 30, 1997**

John, Rodolphus Lestrange and I are sent to kidnap Ollivander, so he can make the Dark Lord a new wand, a really powerful one.

It was really fun. We Apparated to Knockturn Alley and walked to the wand shop, for no reason other than scare tactics, as I could tell.

Lestrange couldn't get the door open so I blasted the lock. I counted to three and then swung it open, Lestrange and John tumbling in in stealth mode. We searched the whole bottom floor, nothing. I led upstairs and then Lestrange and John charged him. We all Apparated from inside and that was that.

**August 6, 1997**

I slept over in John's room. I wondered what I could learn from the whole experience, other than just how good John was in bed, but there wasn't much. The room was barren, functional. He was not the kind of person to keep secrets in such an obvious place. This was also the first night I fall asleep naturally in 225 days—though once again, one could argue I was under a different kind of intoxication. Tobacco and sugar.

**August 30, 1997**

I live with John now, which is a bit weird since it's the same house I've been working in for months. The kitchen had been my kitchen for so long, the meeting rooms my meetings rooms, the giant ballroom mine as well. It wasn't so much a moving house than a moving bedrooms. Instead of Apparating to my bed at Malfoy Manor, I Apparated to John's. The rest of my days were the same.

You're probably wondering about the parents question. That's another story.

I'll say it wasn't a big deal, that everyone in the whole house knew about our relationship but didn't care, but I know that's not true—everyone was just too afraid of John to ever say anything within ten feet of me.

Anyways, I'm telling you this because it was this arrangement that led to me discovering Voldemort's secret, and ultimately understanding John's plan.

When John was home, and not off offing people, I got into bed whenever and once he joined me I took my Dreamless Sleep. He hadn't said anything else about it since that first day at Snape's.

One day there was hardly any left in the bottle, but I was so tired, I wasn't about to get up for anything, so I emptied it and called it a night.

Of course I woke up early, the sun not yet risen, the day not yet worth attending to.

As it turned out, John was awake too, and talking. It was like a mantra; it was creepy. He kept talking about some ring, like, "The ring. It must be. It has to be the ring. What else? The ring, the ring. Why else would he—"

But that was all I heard, because I my body involuntarily freaked out at the noise.

I asked him what the ring was. He got out of bed and asked me if I needed more Dreamless Sleep.

I said what the hell, just talk to me.

John didn't answer, just slammed around in his cupboard until he found the purple potion. Just talk to me. John tossed it at me, grabbed his coat. Just listen. He stormed out.

I threw the bottle at the wall.

**August 31, 1997**

I called a meeting of the Angels in John's name, but I hadn't seen him since the morning of the day before. I explained and they listened, in between the teasing. I asked about what 'the ring' could possibly be. Daphne said it's probably Voldemort's ring.

I asked what. When has he ever worn a ring? She said she's seen him wear it a few times; a real old, family-heirloom-looking thing.

I told them John wants it, I could tell. Has he worn it lately? Where is it?

They don't know.

I was overcome; terrified by John's absence and emotional with this new discovery; passionate. I told them I was going to get it. I was going to find it.

Rami said there's a reason John hasn't gone for it yet. Let's just wait.

But I had been overcome before; I knew how to hide it. So I told them okay. I didn't need their help anyways.

 

Later that day, a good few hours later, I know Voldemort is out and about intimidating the Russian Minister. Possibly executing, depending on his mood.

So I grabbed Dumbledore's dud wand and the cloak–which had both been sitting in John's room disused since the Dark Lord's surrender–and headed for the second floor.

Voldemort's seldom used bedroom was secluded and locked. I considered blowing it, but I wanted this to be a clean job. John had shown me a password once—well, I say shown. I saw him opening a door while he was trying to get me alone, in the most scandalous sense of the term.

I said the password and did the motion, once twice, three times, four–and the door flew open and smacked against the wall. It was loud, but there was no one else around.

The room, unlike John's, was historic and old, with tapestries on every surface and weathered wood peeking out to hold them.

I checked the closet and the bedside table, pulling through clothes and books, but there was nothing important.

Then I looked under the bed. There was a bunch of boxes, but the first one I touched was empty, and the next. I pulled away box after box until I reached it; the gorgeous silver jewelry box in the middle of the pile.

I shoved everything back under, reset the cloak and returned to my room, box in hand.

When John returned that night, he found me in the center of the floor, cloak still lounging around my shoulders, levitating Voldemort's ring with Dumbledore's wand.


	3. Harry James Potter

**August 31, 1997** (Cont.)

John told me not to touch it. I told him I hadn't.

He asked me how I got it. I shrugged and said I just went and looked for it.

How did I get in?

The password.

What password?

The one he'd used before.

How did I know it was going to work?

I didn't.

I could've died.

Really?

Yes. Why did I do that?

I knew he'd wanted it.

John told me in a reverent voice that this was the last one, this was it. This was it.

He stood up and told me to take that off, put that away. I could tell the cloak and wand were making him uncomfortable, though at the time I didn't know why. I dropped the ring in the box and put them on the desk. He picked the case up. He took my hand and we Apparated.

The destination was nowhere special, just the middle of a wheat field in the middle of the summer.

John put the box on the ground, open. He took a step back and I followed. He pulled a vial from his robes—Basilisk venom. No, it wasn't legal. Yes, it cost him an arm and a leg. He looked at me, kissed me, and then dropped a single drop on the ring.

It was disgusting.

Deep blue ink exploded from its every weld, the stone on top springing from its mold. The silver box was instantly stained and started to melt in places. There was a shrieking, screaming, high-pitched whining sound coming from the ring. It spun in place, leaking liquid nighttime and screaming, dispelling whatever evil was stored inside.

Then it was over, dead.

John laughed a relieved kind of laugh. He snatched the stone and quickly slipped it away. He tried to kiss me again. I told him explanations first, tobacco and sugar later.

**September 1, 1997**

It was bad enough I wasn't heading to Hogwarts on September 1st for the first time in six years, but seeing all of them, lined up in a row, in all their Hogwartsian glory, just tore at me.

John showed me them. All the ones he'd killed—the ring now added on the end. The last one.

He was smart. He rented out something called a 'Muggle Storage Locker'. (However I still can't imagine why anyone would store a Muggle in such a strange place.) Voldemort would never look there.

They were just lying there, on the floor. John told me they weren't dangerous, not anymore. I could touch them if I wanted. I didn't want to.

First, there was an ink-stained journal I didn't recognize, and then the ring. Then, there was Hogwarts.

Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin.

More specifically, the sword of Godric Gryffindor, warped and twisted, sporting dark stains and rust. The name and the intricate carvings on the hilt—ruined. Helga Hufflepuff's cup—bent. Blackened. One of the handles was broken at the top, and the leaf pattern around the base was filled with dried ink. Worthless.

The Diadem was the sorriest sight to see. Almost completely curled in on itself, the delicate arms were reduced to thin black spiders' legs. The two smaller stones had surrendered and were littered like solid, sapphire tears on the ugly cement floor.

Then, the locket. Slytherin's locket. It was open, on its back, so I could see that the gold on the face was muddled and ink-stained—however the emerald 'S' still shone out of the blackened casing. The chain was melted and fused together where it strung around the pendant.

It was my school, my home, my friends, my colours. My magic was there. My life was there.

I had to remind myself that it wasn't anymore.

The seventh and last object was quite unlike the rest—yet also completely the same.

It was a staff. 100 times the size of the rest of the line-up, but petite in its own right. It was ancient, so very ancient, and beautifully carved along the whole shaft.

From the flattened heel to the dark forest peridot that peeked out among the twisting twigs at the hilt of the staff, runes in every language and words in Latin, French and Parseltongue decorated the deep walnut wood.

Well, it had looked like that once upon a time. Now it was burned, splintered, pale, the shine gone from the stone. Ink had leaked from its crevices and dried in the grooves; on the floor. It was ugly. Old. A fossil.

But I hadn't bought a textbook yet that didn't describe the great Merlin's staff.

I tried to ask questions; I got next to nothing. Where? How? Who? I mostly wanted to know about the staff—historians had been saying it had been lost for centuries. How was it found? And why did it look like this now?

John told me it hadn't been easy, destroying something so utterly important. I tried not to think about what that meant for the Hogwarts memorabilia. Useless Muggle-loving playthings, I imagined.

I asked, he didn't answer. We went home. Voldemort wasn't back so we ate dinner alone.

I wondered how long he'd been killing those things. Weeks? Months? Years? I thought back over our first few meetings; had he been taking the edge off in Madam Rosmerta's, having just come from Cuba where he dug up a locket and poured Basilisk venom over it? Had he kissed me and then left to burn down an entire Moroccan market with Fiendfyre, all for one little crown?

I asked John why he'd kissed me, that first time, in the chocolate closet.

He smiled.

He told me he didn't want to be like Tom. He grew up wanting to be Tom, thinking that a status like ‘Dark Lord’ was the epitome of power—until he discovered passion.

Tom had been conceived under the effects of a love potion, and therefore was incapable of love, or any of its facets. Even the cause he dedicated his life to; it was an empty devotion. He wanted to fill his heart with power, when it needed to be filled with love—and that was why his Death Eater campaign was so fruitless; why he had to be removed.

But passion for the cause was just one way John had love on his side. Passion could only go so far, he said. Passion and hatred and loyalty and intrigue and morality. He could've taken days to talk me into joining the Angels. But he didn't.

John looked me dead in the eye and said, "Sex is powerful, Draco."

**September 4, 1997**

It was a huge meeting. Voldemort actually thought he was getting somewhere. There was hundreds of people crammed inside; more than I'd ever seen. The Angels were placed strategically around throughout the crowd. John wouldn't be able to handle a mob on his own, so we were preventative measures; cutting off the heads before the teeth could bare.

The usual shouting, preaching, storytelling. Everything went on as normal, except.

John wasn't there.

I don't know what he told Voldemort, but everything went on the same; he just wasn't there.

Right around the first mention of Uganda, John came in.

The main door, not the one he and Voldemort usually used, the main door slammed open and he strode inside until the crowd got too thick. He raised his wand and shouted, "Avada Kedavra!"

Voldemort blocked the first one.

John continued his charge; people made way. He fired again, wordlessly.

Voldemort blocked the second one.

John kept going. There was fear in Voldemort's eyes. He rasped, "John—" but was cut off as the third and final spell found its mark.

There was silence as the Dark Lord fell. He was supposed to be immortal. He was supposed to be immortal. He lied? He lied to everyone? What else had he lied about? What about—

John kept moving, reached the stage and climbed atop it.

"Hello, everyone," He said; the first time he'd ever spoken in one of these meetings. "My name is John. I'm in charge now." He didn't sound nervous, but he wasn't exactly speaking in rhyme either. "Before you decide I'm not right to lead you, hear me out."

I knew, I knew, he couldn't be looking at me. There was no way. But I nodded anyways, having heard these words a thousand times before bed; knowing he knew them, and knew how to use them.

"You want to kill Mudbloods? Why aren't they dead? You want to put Blood Traitors in their place? Why are they still working? Betraying us? Betraying the true wizards?

"Voldemort had a dream. But I have an objective. We are pure blood wizards. We own the Earth. I say, we take it."

Complete silence still gripped the crowd. I guess they hadn't been anticipating their Golden Boy killing their Dark Lord at all that day.

"Now, if you don't like it, speak up."

That was our cue. It was our turn. I tried to glance surreptitiously around; I could see Helga and Daphne doing the same. Nobody moved.

Until, someone started to clap. Slowly. One clap. Another. People joined in. It spread. Claps, claps, clapping. Applause. They liked him.

I looked at Daphne; she wasn't clapping either. We had a job to do.

And then it happened.

Naysayers found their courage as the whooping and shouting and the noise began again. One girl near the back started shouting, "No. No! This is—"

To this day I bet that she was about to say 'mutiny', though Gemma bets on 'wrong', being the one who stunned her and cut it short.

A few others called out, did the same. They're picked off by Rami, Helga.

One near me shook his friend and whispered, "Stop it. We aren't following John. We're not. We—"

I stunned him on the spot.

 

“You missed,” I'd told him after the fact.

Voldemort was to be buried in the garden; Gemma and Rami were going to handle it, but John was just saying goodbye one last time.

He didn't look all that different, the Dark Lord, laying on table, dead. The horcruxes had already disfigured him, his skin already gray. He’d looked like death long before he actually met it. He looked like death the whole time he was trying to avoid it.

John didn't understand what I meant so I elaborated. I told him he'd fired three times, when he should have fired once.

He didn't respond.

I asked him if he loved him. He didn't answer. I asked if he had, at one point; maybe not today, but once upon a time.

He nodded.

He asked if he could have a minute. I left. He must have put a Silencing Charm up, because I didn't hear anything, but I knew he was crying. I don't know why he cried. I don't know if it was love or hate or regret or stress. But he was human, almost unlike the great thing lying dead before him. And humans miss. And humans cry.

**September 5, 1997**

We're in charge now. The modus operandi is organization—planning the Big Coming Out. The, Hello Naughty Mudbloods, it's Murder Time coming out. Not the gay kind. Which Gemma and I kept making jokes about.

Even though we're hardly qualified and some of the youngest people in the house, the original six of us were the leaders. John made speeches, recruited people, sorted them.

For example: Fidelius charms are being cast left and right, and we need a way around it. Three people volunteer, and according to their strengths, John puts them on a team. My team, obviously, was the best. We were the duelling team. Team Scorpius—though I didn't think my group members were as crazy about the name as I was.

On Coming Out day, we were going to storm a variety of fronts—the Daily Prophet, any hideouts we'd managed to locate, and the like. Some had never cast an Unforgivable before. We fixed that.

**September 6, 1997**

John held a Death Eater meeting. Most of them had been loyal to Voldemort; they were also stunned and relocated accordingly. Amycus was brainless and didn't want to follow John. Alecto stayed. After the meeting, she started acting all weird and tried to make sure everything was cool between John and her, but ultimately ended up just making a fool of herself, and getting herself assigned to my team, under me. She definitely did not like the name Scorpius—or she just hated me. Whichever.

**September 10, 1997**

The date was set for the 15th. Five days. That meant target practice, endurance training, and basic occlumency, for Team Scorpius. It was fun. The yelling. The teaching. Even though he was busy, John always made sure to drop by our group, kiss me and ask how everything was going. With his Tom gone, he was more tobacco and sugar than ever. H even sometimes kept a package in his back pocket.

John was really personal with the soldiers. Instead of just speaking motivationally, like Voldemort did, he connected with them. He shared his passion and made them believe. They responded well to it. They responded well to love. Not to mention they always listened to me a little better after he left, tobacco and sugar on my lips and on my clothes.

**September 15, 1997**

We took the Alley. Scared off anyone left. Didn't kill anyone. That was a different team.

We stormed Madame Malkin's. Looked for a group of rebels for ten minutes. John showed up, of course, once we found them and the fighting started.

Curses were going everywhere. I didn't trust the floor beneath my feet. More dirty blood kept jumping out, actually putting up a fight. It was a little tiring, but nothing we couldn't handle.

John apparated in and said "Hey," picking off a woman in a patchwork dress. She fell, stunned. _Hey_. Of all things.

He'd come to deliver our next assignment. Hogwarts. The Room of Requirement. I told him we were on it.

John asked if I was sure. I was. He scanned my horizon in a moment and took out the three nearest threats. He kissed me and disappeared.

When I looked back to the fight, Mohammed and Alecto were staring at me. I ignored it, I ignored everything—I focused. With the thrill of mint and cigarettes coursing through my veins and opening my eyes, I shouted new instructions. My team reacted, attacked, and took out the remaining rebels in record time.

Alecto gave me a look. I ignored it.

We counted and Disapparated.

At Hogwarts, there was protection, and shields, and it wasn't easy but we fought it off and forced our way inside. We took out whoever we met, but stuck to the plan; headed for the target.

One of the first people we met was none other than that imbecile Neville Longbottom.

He was just standing in the middle of the foyer, as if Gemma couldn't knock him over just by walking into him. As if I couldn't. He said, "Malfoy."

I said, "Longbottom." It was obvious he wasn't about to stand down so I threw a curse to test the waters.

He immediately blocked it and sent one back.

I stopped it easily, but I saw three shadows of those trailing after me leap forwards in sync. I only realized later that it was a show of just how invested in my survival my team was.

But in the moment, I hated it. What did they think, I couldn't protect myself? Rage coursing, I scoffed and fired Stuns until one landed.

We had to destroy the wall and permanently damage the Room forever, but we made it inside and uncovered a third of Hogwarts' population.

I should've known. I wanted to be the fearless leader, taking unbelievers left and right, no matter their age, blood, colour, anything. But there was probably only one person in the whole world who could've broken that, in that moment. Maybe two, but I doubt my Mother would've left her post back at the house to save her son's soul.

It was Astoria Greengrass. Daphne's sister. She was in her fifth year, then, and still looked like a child to me, but she was one of the only students I'd gotten to know outside my year—and even then I'd only talked to her a handful of times. All my other friends at Hogwarts were gone with me. I was staring at a sea of young strangers—and Astoria. Astoria running up and hugging me, telling me she thought I was dead.

In truth, that was the only thing that stopped me from firing right away.

Of course, it all ended when she told me they wouldn't accept John, I deduced it had been a play (Though she swears to this day it wasn't) and I Stunned her into next week.

We grabbed all the dirty blood and Stunned everyone else and left.

**September 16, 1997**

There was a party. I didn't really like it. I fell asleep to John coming to bed late, and woke to him arising early. He dressed and shoved the cloak and Dumbledore's wand into a bag. I asked him where he was going. He started searching through his sock drawer, and said they needed to be kept safe. I asked where he was going to put them. Somewhere safe.

I sat up fully at this point, not wanting John to leave. I asked him if it was a good idea, having only him know their location. He found a little black box, kissed me, alcohol and sugar, and said it had to be that way.

**December 25, 1997**

Merry Christmas to me. Today was the day I found out my Emperor, advocate, best friend and boyfriend was the worst human being on the whole planet.

I had been playing housewife since September, with John running the World and having had no real ambitions since Being a Death Eater. I wasted a lot of Potion ingredients, destroyed a lot of Tom's old furniture, and redecorated the entire house twice with the strength of the multiple House Elves.

John, on the other hand, hated not being busy, and immediately started planning the takeover of the largest Muggle governments. I had to pass on that one.

We'd had a nice Christmas morning. Breakfast. Presents. Some C.I.A. intel had come in late last night so he snuck off to work around noon—which was no longer located in our house, thank goodness. No, John's administration worked out of the Castle, now. The place once called Hogwarts, but now a magically-heated heap of ruins that served to project John's words all over the world.

That Christmas I got a new broom, a new wardrobe, a reprobate boyfriend, and two burglars.

A shipment from Venezuela was in, and Gadkey—short, intelligent, quick with messes—had pointed out that their allowance was empty and there was nothing to pay the delivery Elf with. Banks were eradicated in the new system, of course, so we kept our three respective fortunes in three respective vaults in the basement, labeled aptly, 'Riddle', 'Potter', and 'Malfoy'. I made trips to my own often; this was no new occurrence for me. Routine. Easy.

Until of course, I found two people trying to 'Alohamora' their way into Tom's money.

It was Hermione Granger and Neville Longbottom.

I didn't Stun them immediately. It was a surprise to see them, to say the least. I didn't want to think about what someone would want to steal from John, or why it would be Granger and Longbottom stealing it. I didn't want to think, so I asked. Why are you here. What do you want.

Draco. They were surprised to see me in Voldemort's house, I guess. They'd heard rumours.

I told them they were true.

They told me John was dangerous and I knew that. They told me John had killed people and I knew that.

They told me that John had to be stopped, and all of a sudden, I knew that. John had to be stopped. My whole life, I had believed in the cause, in Tom, in John. I had never wanted outside the life my parents planned for me. In that moment, I had everything any younger me asked would've asked for, until they told me he had to be stopped, and then I knew. 

I didn't want any of it. I wanted out. John was  _ wrong _ .

They told me they needed to find something, something small, of value, or importance, something that meant something to John, and I knew.

I told them they were looking in the wrong place.

We Apparated up, because the house elves would tell. I went through my own sock drawer and found the First Snitch I Ever Caught. I wrapped it up and gave it to them and told them there was something else. Something called the Hallows.

They went white as sheets.

John had the Deathly Hallows.

Yes.

I breathed and apologized. I had them. I had them all. I could've stopped him, I could've, but I didn't know. I didn't know. The snitch, the wand, the cloak, the stone. I didn't know. I didn't know. I didn't know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is called 'Epilogue' but it contains the end of the plot so don't forget to read it!!!  
> Also if anything has confused you thus far, the notes after the last chapter explain the overarching ideas.


	4. Epilogue

I was at the Castle. They stormed it. There was a lot of them. They killed John. Hermione hugged me and Neville thanked me. 

They took me to St. Mungo's and had everything from my reflexes to my mental health checked. Waiting for bad news, Hermione told me I should look into 'therapy'. I didn't want to, but the Healer said I had a Muggle disease called PTSD, whatever that means, and gave me your address. 

I moved in with my parents. I wasted a lot of Potion ingredients and broke a lot of old furniture. I didn't go at first, to the therapy, but then Hermione starting showing up at my house, then Healers and then Aurors. I had to see you, or I'd be in trouble.

So I found you, and you told me to write this book. 

I know it's to make money but you said it would help. 

Thinking about him; thinking about all of it. Tobacco and sugar. The Angels. Team Scorpius. Tobacco and sugar, alcohol and sweat. Dreamless Sleep kisses under cigarette sheets. Talking shit after meetings over Marlboro's in the garden. Half finished whiskeys. Tobacco and sugar.

I don't think it helped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You made it! I hope that made sense. If it didn't, I'll spell it out, and send me a comment about what exactly didn't work so I can improve :)
> 
> -The title, 'The Master of Death', refers to the overarching plot of this story: the Deathly Hallows being passed from Voldemort to Draco to Harry/John.  
> -Voldemort has the stone until Draco steals it from his bedroom. John takes it from Draco afterwards.  
> -James Potter had the cloak, until Voldemort stole it from him the night he murdered him, and then John took it from Voldemort. John gives it to Draco to help him kill Dumbledore, by hiding it in his bag on his way to school. (John has freaky dark magic OK) John took it from Draco afterwards.  
> -Dumbledore had the Elder Wand until Draco disarmed him, leaving Draco to be the rightful owner throughout the rest of the story, despite Voldy and John taking possession of it. (No I did not make ownership of the Elder Wand a larger part of this story. I just didn't, OK?)
> 
> -When Draco goes to find the ring for John, he uses the Invisibility Cloak and the Elder Wand, though at the time, he didn't "believe in fairy tales", so he didn't think much of having the three Deathly Hallows in his possession all at once–that is, once he acquires the ring that contains the Resurrection Stone.  
> -This does, however, bother John, who very much believes in fairy tales, and is very much an over-protective, power-oriented and possessive boyfriend.  
> -Once John takes control of everything, he still feels something is missing (because that is human nature) and hides the Hallows in an attempt to feel REAL power.
> 
> That's it for the Hallows, now on to the Horcruxes!  
> -Voldemort had [seven Horcruxes](http://birbclub.tumblr.com/11).  
> -John somehow figured out what they were, tracked them down and killed them without Voldy figuring out.  
> -John made a horcrux of his own. Just one. Draco's snitch, the First Snitch he Ever Caught. It goes missing for a bit and that's when John turns it into a horcrux. It remains in Draco's possession....like a little piece of John's heart....John gave to Draco.....lol fuckign sap  
> -If Harry, Ron, and Hermione can't be the Three Horcrux Hunters, someone's got to...and those people are Hermione and Neville! They sneak into Riddle Manor for the express purpose of finding John's horcrux, and they find the next best thing: Draco. They destroy the Snitch and then kill John. 
> 
> -Sorry if the whole 'John' thing for confusing. I got used to it pretty quickly. I just honestly didn't believe that in any universe, if Voldemort took Harry under his wing, he would let him be called "Harry Potter" like no  
> -If you like the journal style and want entries from other characters in this 'verse, let me know! I have a few ideas for John, Neville, some of the other Angels, etc.  
> -Please leave a comment regardless! Tell me you loved it! Tell me you hated it! I know its not necessarily a conventional fic, but I half-wanted to prove to my mother that I could write a good story that was still fanfiction. (She won't read this but I think I did alright.)
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


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